


あと

by natsugumi



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, takes place sometime before part 2, vague spoilers for itarus backstory and citrons status, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22460965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natsugumi/pseuds/natsugumi
Summary: Itaru comes home.a3 week day two: hurt/comfort
Relationships: Chigasaki Itaru/Citron
Comments: 15
Kudos: 92





	あと

**Author's Note:**

> Yes A3 week ended on the 26th. yes its the 29th and im posting day two. what about it.
> 
> Itaru talks a lot about having depression in this one—it gets heavy for one paragraph, but it's talked about through the entire fic, so if you're not the biggest fan of that I'd click off :(
> 
> you'll probably be able to tell where i took a break in the middle lol, but i wrote this whole thing in like 2 hours without proofreading it sooo. ☺️

When Itaru finally gets to his door, light is seeping out from the crack and he can hear someone muttering to themself inside.

If it’s a robber, he’ll just mimic some moves from  _ Fatal Fighting 3  _ (and embarrass himself), no biggie. But Itaru’s also tired, and he had a shit day; if anyone dangerous was actually inside, he’d probably just ask if they could come back tomorrow or something. He places his hand on the doorknob—gently, so as to not alert the intruder of his presence—and turns.

Mustering all of his gamer rage (or what’s left of it after today, at least), he proclaims to the room in his biggest actor voice, “I’m home.” Okay, maybe it’s not the smartest thing he could say to alert a potential thief of his presence—but Itaru isn’t really all that smart, and he also feels numb right now, so he doesn’t care. His voice comes out frailer than he’d like, and he flinches as the bright lights of his room glare into his eyes. His eyes, worn out as they are, scan the room as he takes off his shoes. Everything’s in its place; his dirty lounge clothes are laid on the back of his couch, a can of coke remains spilled on the floor from yesterday. One thing—or rather, person—stands out, though.

“Itaru,” a familiar voice calls. “You’re back!”

Oh. It’s Citron. Itaru should’ve expected that, honestly.

Citron jumps out of Itaru’s gamer chair and walks over to him, enthusiastic as though Itaru was a limited SSR. Itaru distantly wishes his faves would come home. “You said you weren’t feeling well,” Citron explains hurriedly, “so I wanted to be deer when you got home.”

“Here,” Itaru corrects. He feels like he’s been put on auto mode. “Thanks.” He can’t recall LIMEing his partner that he was feeling down, though. Maybe it should be alarming, but he doesn’t remember much when he’s like this.

“Yes, that,” Citron says, smiling. He’s way too bright for Itaru, and frankly, the gamer has no idea why the prince chose him of all people. Citron breaks Itaru’s train of thought by continuing to talk—the latter can’t complain, because Citron’s voice is nice and distracting. “Do you want to talk about it or do something else?” His voice is gentler when asking this, his arms opened wide, and Itaru hates it—hates it because Citron is so used to taking care of him after days like this, and Itaru feels awful.

He melts into Citron’s embrace anyway, because Citron is warm and he smells good—when was the last time Itaru showered? He listens to his boyfriend’s heartbeat for a second before mumbling a pathetic “something else” into his chest.

Citron nods, shuffling the pair over to the couch. He doesn’t huff as he places Itaru down. Itaru likes Citron’s strength. He wishes he was as half as resilient as him. He watches wistfully as Citron walks over to Itaru’s dresser, searching the drawers for something.

Itaru was told that he had depression at age ten. It wasn’t added to his health record, because then he’d stand out, and so he never received professional help for it. Once, in his second year of high school, Itaru saw his school counselor about his solitude. He knew that he had depression. He also knew that he was a faker, so he told the counselor, too, that he was simply sick. He wasn’t lying. Sometimes he lays awake in his bed, watching the ceiling. His LP remains stagnant in its pool as the clock ticks by, well after midnight. Itaru feels lost sometimes. Most of the time. His head feels light, fuzzy, and he can hear buzzing coming from nowhere.

He also hears footsteps and Citron comes back with a clean pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. “Hi,” he greets again. Itaru tries to smile back at him, but he doesn’t think it works out. Citron just grins brighter and holds out the clothes. “Wanna change? I’ll turn around,” he says, placing his hands over his eyes.

Itaru thinks it’s cute. Nice bloomed art. “‘Kay,” he mumbles, waiting for Citron to turn around before he shrugs off his suit jacket. His tie is already undone, was tugged apart as soon as he walked into the dorms, so he pulls it off with no hassle. There’s a nasty snot stain on the sleeve of his button-up. He remembers making it in his office’s stairwell. He undoes a few buttons, then slides his top up and off his torso. He lifts up his hips, unbuckling his belt and sliding off his pants. They slump on the floor and Itaru almost considers picking them up.

When he’s done putting on his clothes, Itaru says, “You can look now,” scooting over so Citron has enough space to slide next to him. He does, and he waits for Itaru to lean into him before wrapping his arms around him. It’s warm. Citron is warm.

“What do you want to do?” Citron whispers as Itaru buries his head in his neck.

Itaru doesn’t want to do anything, but the fuzziness of his brain heightens to a static at the thought of doing nothing, so he says, “Can I just listen to you talk?”

Citron hums and Itaru can feel it. “Of course,” he responds. “What should I talk about?”

“Uh…” Itaru pauses. The static thrums. “Did you play anything today?”

“I did play  _ The Ems _ ,” Citron says thoughtfully. “The Em I made last time is now a ghost. I made a new one. He works at a nightclub and he’s never nude.”

Itaru almost snorts. “Cool,” he offers. “Why’d your other Em die?”

“His wife was hungry and was stuck in a loop of making cereal for three days. Then she died of starvation, and my Em watched and died of jock.”

“...Shock?” Itaru guesses. The fuzziness is almost completely gone.

“Ah, yes,” Citron agrees. “It was sad. I sold his ashes.”

Itaru, as little as it may be, smiles into Citron’s skin. He pulls away and looks up at the prince. He’s smiling too, shining down at Itaru.

“Hi,” Itaru manages.

“Hello,” Citron says back.

Citron is warm. Citron is like getting three copies of your fave’s limited SSR on the first pull with free gems. Itaru likes the way he’s effortlessly smooth when he wants to be. He likes his natural charm. Itaru likes Citron. His arms travel from around his neck to his lower back, pulling Itaru into his lap. Oh. Citron’s shirt looks familiar.

Itaru tugs at it. “Is this mine?”

Citron nods.

They’re basically the same height, with Itaru being taller than his partner by a centimeter, so the shirt is only a little tight because Itaru is, unfortunately, a twink, and Citron is at least a little more fit than him. Itaru likes the way it looks on Citron.

“You know, you’re above an SSR,” Itaru begins. His gaze flickers to the side as Citron’s blue eyes look down at him curiously. “You’re like. A UR. And I still got you on free gems, even if the drop rate is only two percent.” Hell yeah, speech 100. Citron doesn’t play nearly as many gacha games as Itaru does (god he wishes that were him), but he hopes the message comes across nonetheless.

Itaru looks back up just as Citron’s expression softens ever so slightly, and he just wants to bury his face in Citron’s chest and stay there forever. “You’re so smooth,” the white-haired man says. He glances at Itaru’s phone, abandoned on the coffee table. “It’s getting late. Do you want to use up your LP and go to bed…?”

Itaru hadn’t thought about his phone, honestly. He’d last used up his LP...at lunch. The stupid meeting that made him feel like dirt had taken up his entire afternoon. His LP had probably been sitting, forgotten and unused, since about three PM. And yet…

“Nah,” Itaru found himself saying. “No events are going on right now, so. Take me to bed, my prince.” He leaned back and reached out his arms for emphasis.

Citron got up from the couch and swooped up Itaru in his arms. Nice. “Ah,” Citron fretted, “but I won’t be able to go up the ladder like this…”

Ah. “You’re right.” Itaru grabbed Citron’s—his?—shirt as he was put down. He watched his boyfriend walk over to the ladder for a second or two before following him, climbing up and into his bed.

Citron shuffled to the wall, allowing Itaru to slide into the space next to him. He draped the covers over the two of them. It was warm.

“Hold me?” Itaru asked.

“Of course,” Citron replied, wrapping his arms around the blond.

Itaru found himself too busy being warm to feel cold.

**Author's Note:**

> itaru: i dont shower  
> citron: 😳
> 
> itaru is an incel but . i care him. projection hours
> 
> i was writing a drabble about "outside work" for day two, but it wasnt that bad so i might post that at some point. i just kinda cranked this out bc i was dissociating and when i came back i could only think about citoita. so.
> 
> i might revisit this at some point because i really hate the ending, but its fine for now. stan citoita for clear skin


End file.
